


The Tab

by MyckiMor



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Fluff, M/M, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyckiMor/pseuds/MyckiMor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He came in to the café nearly every day, this tall, handsome stranger that Isaac totally was not already daydreaming about being head over heels in-love with. Nope. Not him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf. I am not that clever. This work is for fan enjoyment only. No infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Note: This has been so much fun. :3. Like most other things I write, this one got away from me, a bit, and is now a chaptered piece. I don't normally go for AU (writing-wise, I mean), but, this one really grabbed my plot bunnies, and turned them into rabid little frickers. o.O. This will have a soundtrack, shortly, as well. I hope that you enjoy!
> 
> Prompt: Can you do like a waiter pisaac. Where Isaac is a waiter at peters favorite diner and they just hit it off?

It was a simple Tuesday afternoon. The lunch rush had come and gone with the first sprinkles of rain that tell-told of the end of a short, wet summer. The café was bordering on chilly, enough that Lydia kept running to the kitchen to hold her hands up near the ovens to warm them. Scott laughed about it every time he caught her, cracking a joke about anything from how pale she was, to the chances of bad circulation, to, “You _sure_ you’re not pregnant?” The last one had nearly earned him a skillet upside the head, but Allison had managed to get to them in time, prying the blunt object out from between white-knuckled (but, Scott was right, how could anyone tell?) fingers. Lydia didn’t put up much of a fight, of course. Had she chipped one of her perfectly manicured fingernails, they wouldn’t have found Scott’s body for _weeks._

Two o’clock came and went, and, by three o’clock, they had caved and turned up the heater. Strange weather for this time of year, without question, but Isaac didn’t mind. It was just one step closer to fall, to the time of year when their boss would send them apple picking – fresh from the orchards, mind, not from the corner supermarket – to collect the freshest fruit for homemade pies and turnovers, ‘just like Grandmother used to bake’. Isaac had Deaton’s family dessert recipes down to a science, but the kitchen still ended up looking like a disaster zone by the end of the baking process. (He and Scott had a pact on that: Blame the girls). Autumn brought about warm feelings, and happier times. Everyone just seemed… closer, more tolerant in the fall. They worked better together when the leaves turned to bright oranges and crisp yellows. Fresh starts were just around the corner, but, why wait for them? Best to make the most of every day.

“Where’s the eye candy, today, huh, Isaac?” Allison asked, coming up behind him and nearly scaring the wits from him. He’d been a touch too-deep in thought, it seemed. Shaking it off, Isaac turned a grin on the girl.

“Maybe, I snatched him up, and hid him away from _you,_ already,” he suggested. “Would serve you right, not being able to see him for a day.”

Allison’s mouth dropped open, as she fought a laugh. “You rotten little-!” She swatted his arm with the menu in her hand.

“Oh! Ow!” he gasped, mocking pain. It hurt about as much as being slapped with a feather, but Isaac made sure to play it up, throwing himself over the hostess podium and groaning in agony. “Oh! You got me! I can’t see! I’m fading away, Allison! _Save yourself!_ ”

Laughing, Allison walked away, calling a casually amused, “Dork!” over her right shoulder.

There was no arguing that, Isaac told himself as he stood right, and smoothed a rumple from his dress shirt. He smirked as he dusted off his shoulder. He was a Class-A weirdo, and proud of it. Glancing over the the podium, Isaac straightened up the menus, and checked the reservation list, anything that would make it look like he was working, and not thinking about his conversation with Allison.

He came in to the café nearly every day, this tall, handsome stranger that Isaac totally _was not_ already daydreaming about being head over heels in-love with. Nope. Not him. So what if, every time the guy came in, Isaac just so _happened_ to be free to wait his table? If he and the girls in the back had started referring to him as “Tall, Dark, and Bite Me”, so what? No biggie. And, if Isaac had managed to sneak a peek at the guy’s credit card receipt, to learn that Bite Me’s name was really _Peter?_ …-Okay, well, yeah. He could _totally_ cop to that. But, he’d just about drawn the line when Lydia had threatened to call him ‘T.D.’, right to his face. It would have been just his luck, too, that she’d spill _all_ the beans, the conniving little _wench,_ and he’d never see Peter’s face in their establishment, ever again.

It was getting to be a little late into the lunch hours, and still no sign of Peter. Not that Isaac was watching. Soon, the early birds would be coming through for the dinner specials up and down the block, but, Isaac wasn't worried. He knew that the older man sometimes kept odd lunch hours (he wasn't keeping track, or anything, mind), or, he would stop by for dinner. He wasn't fussy about what table he sat at, and he wasn't a creature of habit about his choice of meals. The girls always gave Peter their brightest smiles, claiming it was because he was both a nice customer, _and_ a good tipper. Isaac knew better, though, knew that it was about the beyond-gorgeous smile that they would get, in return. Because, yeah, that smile had been given to him, too, a couple of times, and he could just-

“Isaac!”

Isaac jumped, leaning back a ways as he found a pale hand being waved in his face.

“Yo, Earth to Isaac!” The hand was lowered, and Stiles grinned back at him. “Hey, man. You looked so zoned out, you were almost drooling.”

Eyes widening, Isaac dragged his sleeve over his bottom lip. “Was it that bad?”

Stiles laughed. “It's cool, man. We're all guilty of it, from time to time.” He patted Isaac on the back, before stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and taking a look around. “Pretty quiet, today, huh?”

With a nod, Isaac reached back toward the podium for a menu. “It looked like it was gonna' pour, for a while, there. Turned out to be a sprinkle, but, eh.” He shrugged. “People. No use in trying to understand them.” Stiles chuckled, and Isaac smiled, holding the menu up between them. “Having something?”

Stiles shook his head. “Nah. We just had a thing, back at the dorm. With food. Apparently, we're still welcoming the new freshmen with once-a-week meet-your-neighbour afternoons.”

“I thought you were getting an apartment?” Isaac asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, well.” Stiles paused, and shrugged. “It's not like they're cheap, around here, popular as this city is... And, I didn't have anyone to ask to be my roommate, so...”

“Excuse me,” a third voice cut in, cause both young men to turn around. Isaac had to reel himself back in, as there stood Peter, hunk extraordinaire, dressed in a three-piece suit, a coat draped over one arm, and an umbrella in the other hand. Looking at Stiles, Peter smiled. “I couldn't help but overhear. Did you say that you were looking for a roommate?”

Isaac glanced at Stiles, mouth slightly agape. Stiles nodded. “Ah, yeah, that's right.”

“Nearer to the college?” Again, Stiles nodded, and Peter reached into the pocket of his coat. “I have a nephew,” he explained, digging out a piece of paper. He fished around for another moment. “He's been looking for a-Damn.” He glanced at Isaac, and smiled. “Could I please borrow a pen?”

“Huh?” Isaac replied, intelligently, before quickly getting with the program. “Oh, yeah! Sure!” He reached onto the podium, and snatched the pen from the guest book, promptly passing it over to Peter. “Here you go.”

“Thank you. Now, as I was saying, um...?” He glanced to Stiles, again.

“Stiles,” the younger said, simply.

“Really?” Peter chuckled. “I like that. Well, Stiles, my nephew, Derek, has been looking for someone to split a place with. He's a quiet kid, spends most of his time out, anyway.” He wrote something on the paper, name and number, Isaac assumed, before tearing the slip away from the notepad, and handing the piece over to Stiles. “If you're interested?” he offered, smiling again when Stiles reached out to take the paper from him.

“Derek Hale...” Stiles read the name on the page, and narrowed his eyes for a moment. “Hey, why does that sound familiar?” He glanced up at Isaac, who shrugged.

“Search me.”

“Is he a student?” Stiles asked.

“History major,” Peter confirmed. “Works as a tutor in his spare time. I know he complains about the dorms, all of the time, and his family's house is too far off to be asking other students to travel.” He replaced the notepad into his coat pocket. “And, listen to me, going on and on. If you want to give him a call, I recommend somewhere between four and seven. That's generally when he takes a little time to study, for himself.”

Stiles, nodded. “Okay, cool. And, hey, thanks.” He held up the paper, before tucking it into his own pocket. Glancing over at Isaac, he gave the other boy a, 'Wow, _that_ was weird' smile, which Isaac didn't dare to return.

“Not a problem. I hope that you two can work something out.” Peter then turned to Isaac, and held the pen back out to him. “Thank you for the use of your pen.”

“My pleasure,” Isaac blurted out, mentally slapping himself as Peter raised an eyebrow. “I-I mean, _no problem._ ” He returned the pen to its rightful place (lest Allison have to come hunt him down over the damned thing, later), before turning back to the others. “Ah, so, would you like to have a seat?”

Peter smirked. “Yes, I think that that would be a fine course of action.”

Isaac swallowed down his personal embarrassment, and lead Peter over to a table by big bay window. It offered a perfect view of the busy city street on the other side, a good place to people watch, if that was your thing. Good light, a little warmth from the sun... Damn, he spent too much time assessing his workplace.

“Here you go,” Isaac said, at last, setting the menu down on the table top, and waiting for Peter to settle into his seat. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Hm, I think I'll have...” Scanning the menu _had_ to be for show, by now, Isaac figured, but he never called the older man on it. “Oh, that'll be fine. A vanilla caramel tea, please. Milk, no sugar or honey.”

Isaac nodded. “Okay, I'll be right back with that.” Giving a little smile, he made his way back toward the kitchen. As he pushed his way through the door, he realized that he had forgotten about Stiles. He turned back, and had a look. To his relief, Stiles and Lydia had already struck up a conversation, and he grinned. Those two. They would have been perfect for one another, if they'd just give the other a chance. Shaking his head, Isaac returned to his task of preparing Peter's tea.

“Hey,” Scott called, when Isaac rounded the corner by the stove. “Any orders, yet?”

“Nah. Not yet.” He grabbed the tea kettle, and headed for the sink. “I mean, Peter's here, but, other than that... Nobody.”

“Ohhh, _Peter,_ huh?” Isaac glanced up from the faucet, and found Scott grinning at him, canary-eating style. Scott raised the tongs in his hand, and snapped them together, twice. “So, have you asked him for his number, yet?”

“ _Scott!_ ” Isaac hissed, in little more than a raised whisper. “ _Quiet down!_ The whole place doesn't need to know my business!”

“Oh, please. You just said it, yourself, that the place was dead-empty. So, who's gonna' hear you?”

Isaac's mouth nearly fell open. Was Scott really for real? “Well, _Peter,_ for _one!_ ” He reached to turn off the faucet, and moved the kettle on to the stove. Turning on the burner, he sighed. “ _Look._ You guys may think it's funny-”

“ _Hysterical,_ ” Scott corrected.

“ _Right._ But, just, not so loud, while he's around, huh? I'm already fucking embarrassed, enough, as it is.”

Scott frowned. “How come? Is it because he's older than you?”

To that, Isaac shook his head. “Nah. I don't know what it is. I don't particularly _like_ it, but, I think this stupid thing I have going on is turning me into a fricking _girl._ ”

“Oh! And, _what's_ so bad about being a _girl?_ ” Allison chirped, coming in from the delivery entrance around the back. She set a basket of potatoes on the counter top, before taking a stance, and crossing her arms over her chest. “Well?”

With a heavy sigh, Isaac closed his eyes, and fought back a little smirk. Behind him, he heard Scott chuckle. Oh, Allison had just walked into it, and she didn't even know it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Eh-heh. I know, I know. If you're still reading - or, if you're just reading, for the first time - I hope that you enjoy! ^_^!

Cranberries, Isaac had long-ago decided, were a bitch to clean up. They rolled, and squashed, and the juice leaked out to make a mess. That was just when they fell on the floor, mind. Having to scrub them off of the walls? Screw. _That._ He hadn't thrown a stain-capable fruit inside the cafe since the Great Inventory Disagreement of 2012. (Having to spend four hours scraping raspberry sauce and pea puree out of grill and grout would make any man skittish of a good food fight). Like any lessons well-learned, Isaac would have assumed that they would not have any repeats.

Oh, yeah. Yeah, he was wrong.

Now, as mentioned, lessons were important. Some afternoons, there were complete and total blunders on the part of Deaton's wait staff. Old Mrs. Lanvie, an avid vegetarian, had once been given a turkey burger, instead of her usual veggie patty. Naturally, this resulted in screams, threats, and one hell of a dangerous encounter between Scott and the woman's cane. They learned to be more thorough with following through on special orders. On two separate occasions, lack of communication between Lydia and Allison had lead to double-bookings on tables. The reservations book had since become the most orderly piece of equipment in the entire place. And, in the dinner rush of last Easter, it had apparently slipped Scott's mind that the back corner burner on the stove was on the fritz. He'd put down a pan, slapped on two steaks, and cranked the heat. The burner caught fire, every sprinkler system in the place went off, and no one was able to enjoy their desserts. After that, their beloved head chef had begun to take out more regular maintenance checks with their owner. Thankfully, despite all of the flubs, Deaton understood that they were all human. He knew that they did their best, and was very forgiving.

A food fight in the middle of the day, with a customer waiting, out front? Yeah, not much chance that he would be quite so forgiving about _that._

Ducking a spoonful of mashed potato that was clearly aimed at his head, Isaac grabbed a towel, snatched Peter's appetizer from the window, and rushed out the door. He paused to check it for anything that didn't belong (and heaved a sigh of relief to find it, amazingly enough, untouched). He straightened his posture, squared his shoulders, and walked the plate out to their guest.

“Here you go,” Isaac offered, setting the warm plate of stuffed mushrooms down in front of Peter. “Sorry for the wait.”

Peter just glanced at Isaac's shirt, one eyebrow raised, before smirking back up at the boy's face. “Quite all right. Has the front line shifted, soldier?”

For a moment, Isaac was confused, before he glanced down at his own attire. Instantly mortified by the smears of dark reds and pinks that stained his uniform, he sighed. “...-It's a war, well-fought, I can assure you.”

“Give 'em hell, then.” The older man grinned, and Isaac had to turn away before the colours of his cheeks could match his uniform.

He hurried back to the kitchen, ducking low to avoid any potential contact with all unauthorized flying meats. That would be lovely to explain, how he'd been forced to go to the hospital, in the middle of his shift, because he'd managed to catch a chunk of boiled ham to the eye. Again. Heaven help him, he'd sooner relive the Midnight Squash Debacle of Christmas, 2011. And, they'd argued him that a ladle couldn't be classified as a dangerous weapon.

Peeking around the corner of the counter, Isaac attempted to assess damage control. For the most part, it seemed that things had quieted down, considerably, in the short amount of time that he had been in the dining room. Lydia stood by the sink, a wet cloth in-hand, as she attempted to scrub something orange out of her skirt. (Really, Isaac worried she was just going to make it worse, but who was he to call her on it? If anyone could make a stain disappear, it was Lydia). She tossed a few carefully chosen words at Scott, who was stirring something on the stove. His chef's hat – unanimously voted over-the-top by the entire waitstaff – looked partially singed, at the forehead, while dots of pink and brown speckled the side of Scott's face. Allison was by the trash, picking something mushy out of her hair. The look on her face was priceless, if thoroughly disgusted, and Isaac nearly felt sorry for her. Nearly. She'd thrown the first food, after all. A kiwi. Who the hell throws a kiwi, anyway? She had it coming to her.

If nothing else, it was payback for the sugar daddy crack she'd made, the weekend before. Oh, how sweet, the taste of karmic revenge.

A cursory glance around the rest of the kitchen told a hell of a story. Someone had stepped on a banana, at some point during their... _bonding exercise,_ as they'd come to label such instances. The evidence was streaked across the tile, little globs sticking in the plastic mat, in front of the cooler. Half a bag of flour had tipped onto the floor, before Scott had apparently tracked his way through it. (There was no hiding that it was him, either, given the imprints of his giant clodhoppers). A basket of apples had been up-turned, as had Allison's bounty of potatoes, fruits and vegetables littering the floor, here and there. Utensils were askew from their holders. Napkins were unfolded, and strewn about the room. And, someone – and, Isaac would be _damned_ if it was going to be _him_ – was going to have to scrape a mess (was that apple pie?) out of the overhead vent.

All-in-all, the entire ordeal had been pretty mild, especially in comparison to previous catastrophes.

Which, of course, never happened in Deaton's establishment. Oh, no. They'd never allow it.

Deeming the coast clear, Isaac stood from his crouched position, only to begin bending down to retrieve the wayward produce from the floor. Replacing five apples into their assigned basket, Isaac sighed.

“How's Peter's entree coming?” he asked Scott, glancing toward the burners.

“Almost done,” Scott replied, smiling at nothing in particular. He did that, a lot, Isaac paused to consider. Smiling at nothing. Between that, and the marks on his face, he looked certifiably loony. “By the time he's done with his mushrooms, the soup will be ready.”

“You know,” Lydia commented, stepping toward them with a lazy _click, click, click_ of her high heels. Curiosity won the better of Isaac, then. Peeking over at the girl's skirt, he proved himself both right, and wrong. The fabric looked wet, but, there wasn't a stain to be found, otherwise. “I always find that funny.”

Isaac glanced up, brow creasing in confusion. “What do you find funny?” he asked.

“That Peter orders soup.”

“Why is that funny?” Allison asked, approaching with broom and dust pan in-hand.

Lydia didn't miss a beat. “Because, Scott's soup _sucks._ ” It was so matter-of-fact, Isaac couldn't help the surprised laughter that broke free from his chest. Scott raised his head to stare at Lydia, his eyebrows nearly at his hair line. Before he could even open his mouth, Lydia rolled her eyes. “It's true. Don't act like it isn't.”

“What the hell is wrong with my soup?!” Glancing back down at the pot in front of him, Scott frowned, self-consciously. It was a sight to be savored, as it didn't come around, often. “This is the way I _always_ make my soup.”

Lydia _tsk_ ed. “That's half the point.”

“What's the other half?” Allison asked, shaking flour from her dust pan, and into the trash. For the record, she didn't sound terribly interested in defending Scott. More like, ready to compare notes with her usual partner in crime.

“I don't know.” A sigh left Lydia, then, as she pulled her hair back up into an elastic. “It's just... Soup is so _boring._ I mean, no offense, Scott. It's not really _you,_ per se.”

Scott didn't reply, for a brief moment. Isaac worried he was too ticked off, when he saw the other's pout quirk into a smile. “Nah, it's cool. I get it.” Picking up a large bowl, Scott began ladling in a generous portion of soup. “Soup isn't appreciated, anymore, as it once was. It's been replaced by fancier things.” He grabbed a towel, swiping it around the edge of the bowl, before placing it up at the window. “But, I'll stand by it. It's warm. It's hearty. Not to mention, it's traditional.” Suddenly, he flashed a wicked grin. “And, if there really _is_ anything wrong with it, just remember, you're insulting Deaton's great-great grandmother.”

Everyone paused, for a moment, Allison and Lydia sharing a brief look. Isaac smirked. Leave it to Scott to pull his ass out of a critique, like that. Not to mention, silence the room, in the process.

Shaking his head, Isaac took up the bowl of soup, setting it down on his tray. He also nabbed the sandwich plate, a pair of salt and pepper shakers, and a packet of salted crackers, before lifting the tray from the counter.

“Tell him, I hope he enjoys,” Scott called, over his shoulder.

Isaac nodded. “I'll do that. Thanks.” Easing his way back into the dining room, Isaac approached Peter's table with as much poise as he could muster. The last thing he wanted to do was to go tripping over his own feet, and splatter that nice couple who'd taken up table three with split pea and ham. No one deserved that.

(Secretly, Isaac had to agree with Lydia. There was just no excuse for that one soup).

“Sorry that took so long,” Isaac apologized, carefully setting the soup bowl down in front of Peter.

“Oh,” Peter murmured, eyes moving to his arriving meal, from where they had been focused on the goings-on, outside. “Not to worry. I hadn't even noticed.” He gave Isaac a decidedly warm smile, nearly causing the younger man to dump the sandwich plate right in his lap.

Damn it, he needed to get hold of himself. But, that freaking smile...

Fighting to return a sure smile of his own, Isaac placed the salt, pepper, and crackers down beside the sandwich plate. He then began to collect the empty plate from Peter's appetizer. “How were the mushrooms?”

“Oh, delectable, as always.”

Isaac nodded. “Cool. Oh, and, Scott says, he hopes you enjoy your meal.” Lifting his tray from the table top, Isaac paused. “Can I get you anything else? Refresh your tea, or...?”

Seeming to take a brief inventory of his order, Peter shook his head, before turning the sequel of his earlier smile back on Isaac. “No, thank you. I think that will be all.” He picked up his packet of crackers, moving to open the plastic. “Unless, of course, I can persuade you to join me?”

Okay, forget any and all earlier complaints of cold. The entire place suddenly felt sweltering. Isaac floundered for a second, surprise taking a commanding hold over his cognitive functions. “I, uh,” he began, intelligently. “Um, I mean... I-I can't. I mean, I'd love to. I mean!” Taking a deep... _deep breath_... he tried, again. “I'm on the clock,” he finished, smoothly, praying his face wasn't the deep shade of crimson he just _knew_ it was. How he hadn't burned through the collar of his shirt, he'd never know. It was terribly embarrassing, how flustered he became over the most innocent of comments. Ones made in jest, no less!

Back across the table, Peter smirked, a bit. “Well, perhaps, another time, then?” Again, Isaac found himself at a loss for words. “But, do tell Scott that I said, 'thank you'?”

Isaac nodded, two quick, jerking movements of his head, accompanied by a stutter of, “Y-Yeah sure thing!” He scurried back toward the kitchen, bursting through the door, thankfully avoiding collision with any and all other manner of person, in the process. Taking another deep breath, Isaac slid his tray onto the counter, and tried to catch his breath. To calm down.

To tell himself he wasn't acting like an adolescent schoolboy with a crush, so, _get hold of yourself, Lahey!_

“Whoa, dude,” Scott said, his tone laced with laughter. “You're about as red as a tomato. What happened?” Naturally, Scott noticed. Isaac was thoroughly convinced the man could just _sense_ when he was uncomfortable. “Did you finally ask him out?”

Again, Isaac felt his eyes widen. “Will you _stop it,_ with that?” Wringing his hands together, Isaac looked around. There was no sign of the girls. They were blessedly alone. Taking a step closer, Isaac leaned in to whisper, loudly. “But, uh... But, I think... Peter... may have just asked _me?_ ”

Scott's jaw dropped, momentarily, in surprise. “What? Dude! Tell me what he said!”

“What are we, twelve?” Isaac cringed, a bit, knowing he'd been acting about that age, the last few weeks. Regardless, he repeated Peter's words back to Scott, who mulled them over for a minute. He was sure that there was a witty response on the tip of Scott's tongue, but, it was suddenly interrupted.

“Scott, Isaac, good afternoon,” Deaton greeted them, cheerfully. It was followed, however, by a slightly cross, “Why is there a banana squished into the floor? Scott, what happened to your hat? And, your uniform, Isaac?”

Not for the first time, Isaac wondered how they'd all managed to keep their jobs.

 


End file.
